by Dan Alatorre
“Oh, of course!” Donna dug the pack out of her purse. “Help yourself.”
“Mm, can’t—not here,” Bree said. “Someone might see. Rex and Munroe, they are both big time anti-smoking advocates. They’d lose it if they saw me smoking, and I can’t afford to get on their bad side again. They are a couple of hard-nosed bosses.”
“Oh.” Donna lowered her cigarette. “Should I not be—”
“Not, it’s okay for volunteers,” Bree said. “It’s just the staff who can’t smoke. I’m pretty good about hiding it. There’s a little park right over there, with a pond.” She pointed. “That’s where I always sneak off to for a quick cigarette. Addleson says he always notices the smoke smell on people’s clothes, but he’s never caught me.” She smiled at Donna. “Let’s move over there and I’ll join you. Got your car keys? Otherwise, we’ll freeze.”
Donna viewed the dark area. A thick row of trees and bushes were all that was visible from the dimly-lit front of the campaign building. “I guess . . .”
“It’s nice. Very relaxing.” Bree took Donna’s arm. “Come on. We can do a little catching up. Which car is yours?”
“Okay, sure.” Donna crossed the parking lot with her former acquaintance. “I guess another cigarette wouldn’t kill me.”
* * * * *
Munroe frowned, pushing back in his desk chair as he lifted his gaze from a printout. “Oh, I still don’t see it. How did she misplace over a thousand dollars in cash again?” Shaking his head, he decided a break was in order. He folded the printout under his arm and grabbed his coat and scarf, patting the pocket for his cigarettes.
Munroe put on his coat while he headed outside, mumbling to himself as he placed a cigarette between his thin, old lips. “Bree, darling, you are so fabulously meticulous with everything else, but we have simply got to get you to stop taking these large cash donations—or at least get them to the bank in a timely manner!”
The cold air rushed past his cheek, making his ears instantly cold. Across the parking lot, Bree lowered her head and climbed into a dark blue sedan.
Digging in his pocket for his lighter, Munroe squinted. “Bree?”
The car’s taillights lit up as it moved backwards. He held up the printout. “Darling, wait a moment. Have you any idea how . . .”
The sedan drove off the lot and started down the street.
The taillights lit up again almost instantly, as the car drove onto the empty lot next door. In daylight hours, Munroe often walked along the edge of the pond, enjoying a smoke and discussing numbers with Bree. The beautiful oak trees and the dainty little pond were quite relaxing. But at night, the occasional rough-looking derelict occupied the park. It was no place for Munroe after sunset.
As he watched, the dark blue sedan disappeared behind the tree line. A moment later, the engine shut off and the headlights went dark.
Munroe held his coat close around him in the cold night air. “Why, whatever are you doing, dear?” He glanced at the front door of the campaign building, then turned and tucked the printout under his arm, walking toward the tiny park.
* * * * *
Donna shook the pack of cigarettes, ejecting one halfway out. She held the pack out to Bree. “Here you go, safe and sound from any prying eyes.”
Bree took the cigarette, staring at it while Donna took one for herself. It was nearly weightless through her gloved fingertips. She inhaled the rich, sweet hay and moss aroma of the tobacco.
Funny how adrenaline heightens the senses.
The ants crawled around under her skin, moving up her spine.
“Have you had some work done?” Donna gestured to her face. “You do look a little different. I mean, you look great, but it’s the nose, right? That’s what threw me. And your caboose? The cleavage, of course, but who doesn’t get that done in Florida?” She snickered. “I’d like to get my eyes done, but I’m too chicken.”
Bree’s pulse throbbed in her ears. She forced herself to take slow, measured breaths.
The dark interior of the sedan flashed yellow as Donna’s lighter ignited. Holding her cigarette in her lips, she raised the tiny flame.
“Wait, I can’t smell like smoke.” Bree opened the door and got out. The dim glow of a distant street light allowed just enough illumination to see with the car’s headlights turned off.
“Are you okay?” Donna asked, lighting her cigarette and taking a puff. “It’s cold—I thought the whole point of bringing the car was . . .” As Donna exhaled a stream of white smoke, Bree walked around the front of the car, stopping a few feet away from the driver’s side door. Donna put down the window, laughing. “Marla, I thought the whole point of bringing the car was to stay warm inside it.”
“Nope.” Bree raised her gun and shot her old acquaintance in the face.
The .38 put a bullet hole in Donna’s cheek, slamming her head into the headrest and splattering the car interior with blood. Donna’s jaw dropped open, her eyes bulging halfway out of their sockets from the impact. A shiny trickle of red gathered in the hole in Donna’s cheek and slowly rolled downward. She remained sitting upright as her blood and brains leaked out the back of her head and the color drained from her face.
With a slight ringing in her ears, Bree turned on her phone’s flashlight. Donna’s cigarette lay in her lap. Her hands had fallen to her sides, her knees together and resting at just the proper ladylike angle. It was as if Donna had fallen asleep in her car—except for the massive amounts of blood draining down the back of her leather seats and pooling in the carpet below.
“Now,” Bree whispered. “Open the purse, take the cash, and ta-dah, you’re the unfortunate victim of a standard robbery gone wrong, Donna.” Bree opened the door and reached across the corpse, peering into Donna’s dead eyes. “This isn’t really a great part of town after dark. Somebody should have warned you.”
As she slid the currency out of Donna’s wallet, Bree reviewed her next steps.
Toss the .38 into the pond, ball up Marla’s long coat and gloves, stash them in the trunk of my car, where my red dress is waiting . . .
She inspected her jeans and coat, smiling.
Marla’s backup attire never stops coming in handy. Hike back to the campaign building, slip behind the dumpster again and change back into my dress, then stroll right through the back door and into my office. The door’s been closed and locked, my office phone has been on a call with one of Benjamin’s disposable phone lines . . . we’re home free.
Chapter 43
Bree reached the edge of the park, the night air cool on her skin. The lights of the campaign headquarters building created a silhouette of big oak trees against the dark pond.
Later tonight, or maybe tomorrow morning, some old lady walking her dog discovers Donna in the car, calls the cops . . . but by that time, there’ll be so much news coverage of the sniper standoff, there won’t be a spare cop to lend to the scene. And—
“Bree?”
Dean Munroe stood in front of Bree, his sweet old face turning white and his jaw hanging open.
Bree’s stomach lurched.
Munroe looked at Donna’s car. “Honey, what have you done?”
Oh no, oh no, oh no! We’re screwed. He saw it. He saw everything!
No. Think.
It’s Munroe.
He likes you. He’ll want to believe your story.
What would buy his silence? Love. Friendship. The desire to help.
Munroe took an unsteady step toward the sedan, holding up a trembling hand and pointing. “Bree, darling, what has happened here?”
Bree stared at her friend, her mind racing
Work him.
Sympathy.
He’ll believe your story, whatever it is. He’ll want to.
“It was an accident, Munroe.” Bree forced her voice to waver.
Stammer. Act like a victim.
“I—I had to. She was blackmailing me. She . . . she knew about my days in Boca when I clerked in the base psych office and sold
myself on weekends to the enlisted men.”
Munroe looked at her, his eyes wide. “Wh—what?”
“I have a past, Munroe.” Bree sniffled, working up some tears. “I was fresh out of community college, practically still a kid. I did what I had to do, to get out of there—and I did. Look at me. I made something of myself. And she was going to tell everyone. She was going to ruin me. I couldn’t let her take it all away.”
“But, Bree, darling, we . . . we must call the police.”
“Munroe, no. Help me, please.” The tears were flowing now. “It was an accident. I brought the gun to scare her. We fought over it, and it went off. But if we call the police, I’ll be ruined. Please don’t do that.” She sobbed moving closer to him. “You’re one of the good ones, Munroe. Please don’t ruin me. We—we can just go back to the office. Tomorrow, someone will find her and it’ll look like a robbery gone wrong. She stopped for a smoke on her way home and got robbed, and he shot her.”
The old man’s shoulder’s sagged. He looked down. “Darling, I love you, but this is big. We—we should notify someone.”
“Please, Munroe. Please help me.”
“Bree, I—I . . .” He shook his gray, old head. “If what you say is true, then the police will be on your side. And we know lots of lawyers. We’ll get you the best defense attorneys in the state.”
“Munroe, please.” She was pleading now. “You’re one of the good ones. Please.”
“Bree, you . . . you’ve killed someone, dear. I . . . I just . . .”
“Munroe . . .”
Tears welled in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Moaning, Bree raised the .38 and shot her friend in the forehead. His thin frame went over backwards, landing with a light thump that barely disturbed the leaves on the ground.
Bree stared at Munroe as he lay dead in the cold grass. “One gunshot won’t raise eyebrows in this neighborhood. Let’s hope that second one doesn’t, either.”
She leaned over the body and felt for a wallet.
“It’s a double robbery gone wrong, Munroe. You happened onto the scene after the thief shot Donna, and he had no choice.” Jerking the wallet from his back pocket, she took out the cash and tossed the rest aside. “The penalty for two murders is the same as for one. It’s . . . like one of your coupons.” She shook her head, whispering. “Such a waste. You were one of the good ones. You . . . could have been so helpful in the campaigns for Governor and Senator.”
Chapter 44
Carly read until two a.m., worked until three, and slept until six—in her desk chair.
When the alarm on her phone buzzed in her pocket, she jumped up, her pulse racing. Blinking hard to clear the fog, she took in her setting.
It’s the office.
She rubbed the sleep from her sore eyes and viewed the next cubicle. Special Agent Eicholtz sat hunched over his laptop, but the rest of the area seemed unoccupied.
Carly pressed the stiffness out of her back, hoping her breath wasn’t too awful. “Eicholtz, I can’t help thinking I must still be asleep somehow. Where is everyone?”
“You aren’t asleep now,” the Agent chuckled, “but you sure were for a while. I asked everyone to work in the lobby until seven, when your interview starts.”
She glanced around. “And . . . they agreed?”
“They thought you needed the rest, too. I just wish I could have gotten you a little more. You ready for the panel?”
“I’m ready for an intravenous coffee injection.” She stretched her arms overhead, her eyes half open. “This day is gonna suck.”
“Maybe this will help.” Eicholtz reached forward and closed his laptop. “Try to realize that the interview will last about an hour, so you really only need to be awake and alert for sixty minutes.” He shrugged. “After that, you can go curl up on a nice, soft mattress and get as much sleep as you want.”
“Good system,” she said. “But I have a feeling that unless the sniper surrenders in that one hour, I won’t be going to sleep after.”
“Try not to think about that part.”
“Right.” She rested against the door frame. “Get any ‘live lights’ yet from your people?”
“Live lines. And no, but they’ll come. We’re asking them to compile a ton of reports, so two data points that link and actually appear to be significant . . . well, if it’s there, they’ll find it. And when they do, be ready to move fast. Sometimes the window can shut like that.” He snapped his fingers. “We got confirmation of three more tarot cards, but I know you thought—”
“Ignore that,” Carly said. “It’s part of the setup. But the handwriting might match something somewhere, or the killer’s word choices, and there may be fingerprints on the cards . . .”
“Right. We’re scanning all that.” He gestured to a nearby credenza. “Have some of that coffee in the thermos. I made it about ten minutes ago. Starbucks Premium Blonde roast.”
“Oh, you are my new best friend.” She staggered toward the credenza.
“Thanks.”
“I was talking to the coffee,” Carly said.
After a shower and change of clothes, she was seated in the conference room, ten minutes early, waiting for her panel interview to begin. Her cardboard name placard had been placed on the wide part of the table; the panel members’ placards were across from her. A single notepad and pencil rested on the cold surface, next to a pitcher of ice water.
As the panel members entered, Carly dropped her hands into her lap, massaging them.
Lieutenant Davis took the seat directly across from her. To his right was Sergeant Bronn and a representative from HR; to his left was Captain Montorro and then Dr. Stevens.
The lieutenant opened a file and picked up his pen. “Detective Sanderson, I believe you know everyone.”
“Yes, sir.” Carly smiled at each person across the big table from her. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Davis said. “Let’s begin, shall we? It’s going to be a long session and time is tight.”
* * * * *
Eicholtz answered his phone before the second ring. “Special Agent Matt Eicholtz.”
“Matt, it’s Jericho. I have a new live line for you.”
Opening his laptop, Eicholtz waited for the password prompt. “Bring it.”
“I’m linking it onto the share system right now. You should be able to access it on your end in a second.”
“What’s the scoop?”
“It’s big—a brown Buick sedan at several of your crime scenes. Check this out. Phil Minor is an Iraq war vet, a combat-tested soldier. Yesterday, your guys talked to him and he said he was out jogging near the International Mall when he heard what he thought was a muffled gunshot. Said it was like when they were driving around in improvised armored vehicles and they’d hear a shot from inside a building. Now, he was wearing earbuds, listening to music—so he admits he can’t be sure—but right after the pop, he saw a brown Buick driving away.”
Eicholtz gripped the phone. “Did he report that?”
“He did,” Jericho said, “but it got lost in the shuffle for awhile. We have a hundred guys processing statements here, while your guys there generate three hundred more each day. But it wasn’t crossed off as having been followed up on, so the system flagged it. And get this. As soon as I put it in and cross referenced it, two more brown sedans popped up.”
“Oh, I love you tech nerds.” Eisholtz picked up a pencil, scribbling notes. “Talk. Where were they?”
“One was across the street from your Village Inn shooting. A landlord was getting ready to prune a tree for a building he was cleaning up. Similar deal. He had ear protection on because he’s starting his chain saw, and all of a sudden, all the birds in the parking lot jump up. Two dogs next door start barking. He thinks maybe he heard a thump or a pop—so your guys file it as a second-tier priority, meaning it’ll get followed up on when there’s time. As we input the data here, we see there’s already a follow-up note. Someone re-intervie
wed the landlord last night, and he says he thought he saw a brown sedan leaving the scene. Again, he’s not a hundred percent sure it means anything—but as soon we put it in, the system live lines, and up pops the first two brown sedans—plus a third one.”
“I bet the sniper’s nest was in the trunk, with a hole to shoot out of, like the D.C. killers.” Eicholtz tapped the tip of his pencil to his chin. “Copycat crap.”
“You still with me, Matty boy?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Eicholtz said. “What’s the third one?”
“Two people filling up their cars at the Shell station thought they heard a commuter on Hillsborough Boulevard blow a tire, but they didn’t see anything. Next thing they know, there’s a car driving out of the parking lot across the street. Fast. They think the driver’s just a jerk, but when the local news put the Tarot card information on TV, the witnesses recognized the building it was found at. They said that’s where the car went speeding out from. A brown sedan.”
“Holy cow.”
“No kidding, buddy. They saw it on the eleven o’clock news last night, and they called in before eleven thirty. We had it processed before midnight, and by around three, all the other stuff starts hitting. I’m going bananas trying to verify everything, and it all checks out. By seven, all hell is breaking loose up here. Homeland Security overlords the Florida DMV database for brown sedans in the greater Tampa area, with a subsearch for Buicks registered within five miles of the kill zones. There are ten.”
“Are we running those down?”
“That’s why I’m calling you,” Jericho said. “Get Tampa PD on it, Matty. The Homeland Security algorithms say there’s a ninety-five percent probability one of those ten cars is your sniper.”
Agent Eicholtz ended the call, racing down the hall to Mellish’s desk. “Where is Carly?”
“She just went into her interview,” Mellish said. “Why?”
Eicholtz put his hands to his head, glancing around. “Who’s covering for her? Sergeant Marshall? He should be downstairs by now, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Mellish typed on his computer. “The sergeant just logged into his laptop. He’s in the downstairs lobby.”